


I'm Sorry

by Lurlur



Category: Slow Show - mia_ugly
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Avery's POV, BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, It's OK cos we know it ends well just not in this piece, M/M, Masturbation, Mid-Canon, Oral Sex, Rated E for excess emotions, change of POV, mia_ugly's Slow Show Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22310971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Avery wants to repair his relationship with his co-star, Anthony. Things take a turn for the unexpected when Anthony gets bad news about his previous partner.This is a POV switch for part of Chapter 6 of mia_ugly's excellent fic, Slow Show.
Relationships: Anthony J. Crowley/Avery Fell (Slow Show)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 146
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side, Slow Show Metaverse





	I'm Sorry

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Slow Show](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395261) by [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/pseuds/mia_ugly). 



> As always, my thanks to mia_ugly for letting me play in her universe. And to the Warlock Party House for being the biggest bunch of enablers I've ever met.

Dressing for dinner takes longer than it should. Avery changes outfits several times, discarding options with an uncharacteristic carelessness until his hotel room floor is littered with cream, tan, and fawn fabrics. Nothing quite conveys the casual comfort he’s looking for and he’s risking running late for his best chance to truly make things right with Anthony. And that’s what this is, after all, a chance to make up for the mess he made, to show Anthony that this friendship isn’t ruined, that Avery can control himself.

Ever since that ill-advised kiss in the hotel room, Avery has struggled with being near Anthony. Now that he knows the feel of his lips, the taste of his tongue, the press of his body, the touch of his hands, Avery is a changed man. His eyes have been opened to a possibility that he hadn’t dared consider; that tall, charming, breathtakingly handsome Anthony J. Crowley might feel for Avery what Avery felt for him. 

Their shared dinners since had been poor facsimiles of those they had spent together before. The damage that Avery has inflicted upon them lurks like a shadow. Seeing Anthony gamely try to ignore it and show how desperate he is to return them to their easy companionship, well, it hurts Avery deeply. 

Finally, he settles on a pale blue shirt and grey trousers. He looks as stiff and starchy as he feels, straining towards softness but missing the mark. He finds a modern-looking cardigan and throws it on over his shirt as if it might disguise the anxiety he’s made of.

It’s raining when Avery makes to leave the hotel, heavy enough to be a nuisance. The woman at reception calls a taxi for him and attempts to chat while he waits. He’s too distracted to offer much in the way of conversation but manages enough to keep from appearing rude. He has his reputation to consider, after all.

There’s a dark shape huddled on the front steps when Avery’s taxi pulls up at the address Anthony has given him. It looks up as Avery closes the car door and, through the rain and the gloom, he recognises Anthony looking sodden and despondent.

“What’s happened?” Avery asks as he approaches, a multitude of horrifying possibilities fighting for prominence in his mind. “Oh, my dear, you’re soaking wet. Are you all right?”

He watches Anthony stand like a newborn gazelle unfolding and finding its feet. The last cigarette is stubbed out and dropped into the ashtray beside him. He motions for Avery to follow him inside, turning to open the door before getting a response.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Avery focuses on Anthony’s face.

“The latest episode of my poor life choices has just aired,” Anthony began, a half-smile twisting his mouth although Avery can’t tell for whose benefit it’s meant. “Remember Matt, that guy I’ve been photographed with a couple of times?”

“Yes, of course,” Avery nods as if the photographs had meant nothing to him, as if he hadn’t wept fat tears over the sight of Anthony embracing someone who couldn’t look any less like Avery if he’d tried.

“It seems that he was tipping off the photographers, trying to raise his own profile,” Crowley shrugs and it breaks Avery’s heart. “He’s got an album or something to promote and I was just convenient.”

The contrast between Crowley’s facade of careless indifference and the clear hurt in his uncovered eyes threatened to undo Avery completely. He’s aware that his face is doing things of its own accord, contorting into masks of pity and horror.

“I am so sorry. Would you like me to-” Avery pauses, unsure of what he’s about to offer. No, that’s not true. He’s going to offer to leave, he can taste the shape of the words on his tongue. “What do you need?”

Anthony looks at him and, just for a moment, Avery can see the ghost of a man who might have asked for what he truly wanted.

“Alcohol,” says Anthony, peeling off his sodden coat and turning his back on Avery. “Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

Avery sighs and earns a quick look from Anthony, a few more layers of defence fall into place between them. All his plans of restoring their previous ease have fled, all Avery wants is to lessen Anthony’s pain.

“You want whiskey?” Anthony continues, filling the silence with a nervous energy that itches at Avery. “I’ve got whiskey. Also, I’m going to get bloody staggered on cheese, no better cure for heartache, eh? I should show you around. Not a bad place. You want to see the kitchen?”

“Crowley-” Avery starts, looking for anything he can say to break Anthony’s cycle of babbling.

“Look at this – the piano,” he wanders away, gesturing at the instrument. “Fancy tickling the ivories, angel? Go ahead, if you want.”

“My dear-” Avery tries again, a little more forceful.

“Sorry, I should have picked up a bit,” Anthony’s staring at a puddle on the floor, apparently unaware that it’s one of a trail that he’s left through the house. “Beez left things in a state, gimme a sec, I’ll grab a mop and take care of-”

“Anthony, stop,” Avery says, more snappish than he’d intended. 

He puts a hand on Anthony’s shoulder, desperate to wrench his attention away from the thoughts that circle him. Anthony flinches and Avery’s heart breaks. He pulls back his hand as if he’d been shocked.

“What do you need?” Avery repeats, distracting himself as much as Anthony.

“I already told you, I’m going to get absolutely-”

“It’s freezing in here,” Avery cuts him off, unable to bear hearing Anthony’s rambling deflection again. “I’ll start a fire.”

“You-” Avery can’t hear whatever is coming next.

“Do you have a tub? Perhaps you should have a soak.”

“Az, I invited you for dinner,” Anthony sounds defeated, clutching at flimsy pretexts.

“I’ll fix something. Or we can order in. I’ll put the kettle on as well.”

“I-”

“You’re wet through and smell like an ashtray,” Avery doesn’t mean to be so blunt, truly. 

Anthony blinks at him, comprehension slowly dawning.

“Oh, I like that. In my time of need and you come after my musk?”

Avery stifles a snort, pleased to be back in familiar territory.

“Muskox, more like.”

Anthony seems to melt, like a snowman in the first warm rays of sunlight. He looks a little smaller, a little softer, a little more fragile. Avery wants to hold him but his touch has already been rejected.

“It was nothing, really,” Anthony starts an explanation that Avery hasn’t asked for. “I’m not that broken up about it. I’m fine. It’s fine.” Avery isn’t sure who Anthony is trying to convince with this performance. He’s clearly not fine. “It’s just bad manners on his part, and you don’t have to give me that look.”

Unaware that he was giving any kind of look, Avery blinks.

“Er, yes. Um. Quite.” 

There’s too much to process. Avery needs a moment with this information.

“You okay?” Anthony looks concerned and Avery can’t stand it.

“Yes, perfectly. You should go upstairs. Just. Take a moment,” Avery pauses, feeling himself teeter at the brink of his own anxious ramble. “I’ll take care of things down here.”

“You don’t need to fuss over me.”

“Someone has to,” Avery knows he’s said the wrong thing because Anthony won’t look at him.

Perhaps he’s ruined it already, this fragile rebuilding of their friendship. Anthony looks like he might object, his gaze almost lifting to Avery’s face. Instead, he turns away and walks up the stairs.

Avery stays where he is until he hears the sound of the bath filling. There’s a mop in the hall cupboard, Avery takes care of the puddles first as he turns Anthony’s words over in his mind. He’s struck by the idea that Anthony considers this betrayal little more than bad manners.

The fridge is full of things that Avery is afraid to touch, he can’t imagine what Anthony intended to make for them, but there certainly is a lot of cheese. Luckily, there’s also a menu for a local Indian place on the counter. Avery makes a call and orders a selection of dishes, realising too late that he has no idea what Anthony prefers.

That’s the case in so many things, though, Avery thinks as he builds a fire. Every day spent with Anthony reveals some new rich seam of information that Avery never knew existed. He’s shaken by the events of the evening, hating to see Anthony so downcast over someone so unworthy of his attention. The lies that Anthony told about being fine, about it not mattering, about not being that broken up, Avery can’t tell if they were for his benefit or just a vocalisation of the thoughts Anthony was convincing himself of. 

What is clear, Avery thinks as he hears the bath draining upstairs, is that Anthony has convinced himself that he doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t deserve to be treated with kindness. He wants so badly to untie that knot of twisted thinking, to give Anthony the love and kindness that he truly deserves. If only it were safe.

The doorbell buzzes and Avery is distracted from his thoughts by having to deal with the delivery driver. He tips more than he meant to, seeing the torrential rain and the soaked man on the doorstep. He opens a bottle of wine and finishes a glass before he realises how quickly he’s drinking.

He’s unpacking the food when Anthony pads into the kitchen. The sight of him makes Avery’s hands forget how to function, almost dropping the container of pasanda. The man has simply no right looking as good as he does in this moment. 

Loose, faded jeans hang from his hips, his hair lays in damp waves down his back, and the tank-top he’s wearing is so thin with age that Avery can see the outline of his ribs through it.

“Oh, good Lord,” he breathes, weakened by the sight.

Anthony looks vulnerable and comfortable. The carefully curated image has been dropped for the evening, the bad boy ex-junkie isn’t in to callers right now. Above all else, Avery feels honoured that he is being allowed this brief glimpse of the secret Anthony.

“You ordered in?” Anthony asks and Avery can’t work out if he sounds disappointed or surprised.

“Yes, I- rather a lot, I’m afraid,” Avery puts down the pasanda and makes a concerted effort not to wring his hands. “I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for. You liked the lamb last time, I hope this one isn’t too spicy,” Avery says as he finds cutlery and plates, recognising that he’s fussing but not knowing how to stop.

He knocks a fork off the counter, his hands still not truly cooperating. He’s so out of sorts that he fumbles with picking it up and almost cracks his head on the underside of a drawer. With Anthony looking so comfortable and trusting, Avery can’t seem to remember how to act. He can’t match the energy, he’s too nervy and worried about everything and anything that he can be.

“Have you been down here getting trashed without me?” Anthony’s voice is gentle, teasing.

“Trashed? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Here, help yourself. I don’t suppose they remembered raita?” Grateful for the excuse for his clumsiness, Avery picks up their familiar patter.

It’s short-lived, though. They eat in silence. 

Avery drinks more wine than is wise, his appetite is shrivelled and replaced by a far more pressing hunger. Given the circumstances, his hunger is entirely inappropriate and Avery hates himself for it. Anthony keeps looking up from the plate he’s picking at, looking at him like there’s a question on the tip of his tongue. If he asks it, Avery will fold. He’ll give Anthony everything he could ask for. While he looks like that, so soft and pitiable, Avery’s walls are growing weaker by the second.

When they’re finished, Avery moves to collect the plates and start washing up. There’s a light-hearted squabble, something that feels closer to their easy back-and-forth of the past three years. Anthony wins, and Avery considers leaving, putting some distance between them and keeping him away from those lips he’s been dreaming of for weeks.

Anthony sends him into the living room and Avery wonders if he can sense the thoughts of departing. He takes what’s left of the wine with him, topping up his glass once he’s sat on the sofa.

He leaves space beside him, hoping that Anthony will occupy it when he comes in and praying that he won’t. Anthony looks stricken when he sees it, a tumbler of whiskey hanging from his fingertips. Avery’s hand itches to pat the seat beside him as his chest aches with the need to comfort Anthony. It’s just a seat, it shouldn’t cause this much tension. Anthony takes the piano bench, lounging in an improbable pose.

“What a fucking night, eh?” 

Avery can’t help but agree, what a fucking night indeed. He’s still not sure where they stand, if their friendship can be repaired fully. He knows that this time without Anthony has been torture, agony, a desert of emotions. 

“I am so very sorry,” Avery says, feeling the truth of it.

And he is, he’s sorry for so much that he doesn’t know how to articulate it. Tears threaten to fall, Avery bites the inside of his lip and blinks them back, forbidding himself from thinking of the pain he’s inflicted.

“It’s all right,” Anthony begins, deflecting. Perhaps the wine is making Avery more expressive than usual because Anthony sees something in his face and changes tack. “I mean, it’s not all right, but. Should have put it together myself, maybe.”

The tight little smile that Anthony offers at the end of his self-flagellation of a sentence makes Avery’s heart pinch.

“Really? Has this happened before?” How many men have taken advantage of Anthony for him to feel so disposable? Avery dreads to think. “Er- dating someone only to find out-”

“We weren’t dating,” Anthony says it so quickly that Avery blinks in surprise. “Hell, it was never - that.”

“Oh,” Avery feels his throat tighten around the word and something a little like hope prods him behind his ribcage.

“Just a bit of fun,” Anthony adds and immediately pales.

Avery can’t work it out, the revulsion is written across Anthony’s face. It’s not aimed at Matt or Avery, it seems to be aimed at himself. As if he’s somehow to blame for the way he’s been treated, the abominable way his name is dragged through the mud.

“A bit- a bit of fun,” Avery parrots, not daring to imagine the kind of life he might have had to lead in order to call this fun. “Is that what you- do you do that-”

Avery can’t finish the thought, there’s no way for him to ask this question without sounding like a judgemental prick. It’s not what he wants, not now. He swallows hard and tries again. 

“I mean. I mean. I’ve never been the sort to- the casual thing- what do you enjoy about it?” It’s a mess of a question and far too close to emotional honesty but it’ll do. 

“What do I - enjoy?” Anthony looks shocked, his mouth hanging open for a beat. “Ah. The uh - usual stuff. You know.”

Avery can’t speak, there’s a precipice here, an edge he can’t see. It feels like trying to walk down the stairs in the dark, his foot hovering over the edge, waiting to find a solid place to land. Anthony smiles and it’s wicked and sexy and tempting. Avery wants to taste it.

“What, you need me to spell it out for you?”

“Do you want to?” Avery steps over the edge and prays.

The silence stretches forever, Avery lives and dies and is reincarnated in the silence that he puts between them. It’s over in seconds. 

“He was a good time. Nice guy, I guess. Or I thought, anyway.” Avery looks up at this and sees Anthony take a swallow of whiskey, his mouth twisted in a sneer. “The sex was worth the candle. What else do you want to know?”

The ball is volleyed back into Avery’s court, he gets to choose what happens next in the knowledge that Anthony almost certainly will give him anything he asks for.

“What did he- um-” Avery begins, stopping as soon as he’s thought better of it. He swallows the rest of his wine and pours another glass to buy time. “What did you like about him?”

“I liked- I dunno. It was nice to snog someone now and then. Liked his hands.” Anthony is looking at his hands, wrapped around the whiskey glass. Avery tries not to think about his own neat, fussy hands and how they might compare to the shadow of the man haunting them.

“What about them?” Avery asks, too quick, too keen, too interested.

Something cracks in the fireplace, a log splintering or the hopes of a long-banished man poking at things he mustn’t disturb.

“I’m sorry,” Avery says, feeling the need to leave. “I- I’ve clearly had too much to drink, what a question. I’m making you uncomfortable, and after the day you’ve had. I don’t know what- I’m sorry.”

“The size of them.” 

Avery gawps at him, thrown off by the easy way Anthony answers. As if Avery isn’t prying into the most private and personal parts of him.

“He had large hands. Strong. I liked the way he-” Anthony stops, swallows. Avery’s pushed too far, emboldened by the wine and the way Anthony gives him everything. “Az, are you-”

“Will you show me?” Avery looks up, wanting to add the weight of his gaze to the request. 

He’s weak, falling. Whatever restraint he had has been eroded by months of close quarters, longing gazes on camera, that damned stupid kiss. He wants, he wants so much, and Anthony is standing on his own clifftop staring down. Avery’s at the bottom and it’s taking everything in him not to drag Anthony down. He has to want it.

“God, I’m so terribly sorry. What am I even- don’t listen to me, I’m clearly-” Avery falters in his apology as Anthony gets to his feet. 

This is stupid, Avery is so very stupid for pushing this. Taking advantage of the man when he’s struck low by the world, Avery feels sick with himself. Anthony steps closer but not close, wary like a wild animal being offered a mercy.

“He was rough.”

For a moment, Avery can’t breathe. 

He’s not an idiot. He’s seen the way Anthony looks at him, caught him staring over dinner and desserts, heard the catch in his breath when Avery touches his arm. Until the kiss, their kiss, Avery had been denying the evidence of his own senses, writing it off as the overactive imagination of a sad, closeted, old man who had been starved of intimacy. That night, he had indulged himself in fantasy and pushed further than he’d ever dared dream. Now, he wants.

“How, um, exactly?” Avery still can’t look up, his fingers barely capable of holding his wine glass.

“Like- he’d take charge. Do what he wanted.”

Avery doesn’t have to ask, Anthony’s already unbuttoning his jeans and moving them ahead. They’re crashing over the edge together, tumbling into the unknown. His throat is dry and his heart is dashing itself against his ribs like a bumblebee trapped in a jar.

“Is that what you like?” Avery hears his own voice ask. “Do you look for that- that sort of-”

“Sometimes.” Anthony saves him from himself.

Avery can’t look away from the pale skin exposed by Anthony’s open jeans. He wants to taste it, to feel the rasp of his tongue against Anthony’s dry skin. He thinks he could be rough if that’s what Anthony needs, he could take what he wants from Anthony and have him begging for release. It’s not what he imagines on lonely nights, but he could be this if he has to.

“What else would- would he-” a little more to stop them dancing about the point of no return.

“He’d touch me. Like-” Anthony pauses, looking so unsure. “I don’t-”

Avery knows he put that look on Anthony’s face. He’s the source of the lost, confused, vulnerable expression, but he’s also the cause of the lust and the want. It’s an intoxicating mix.

“Please.”

Anthony stills, his breath frozen. Avery makes himself look up, into Anthony’s eyes. He is guileless, open, almost pleading. Avery loves him. Oh, he loves him so much. Something passes between them, nothing as concrete as understanding, but something that puts them on the same page. It’s something they’ll do together.

Anthony slides his underwear down over slim hips and fiery hair, Avery lets his eyes follow the movement down to Anthony’s hard, red cock.

“He would- like this.” 

Avery can feel Anthony’s eyes on his face but he can’t look away from the man’s hands. The way Anthony touches himself, it’s almost possessive. Another man did this, took hold of Anthony like he owned him. Avery can picture him, standing behind Anthony with one hand curled about his throat and the other sliding over his hip. He gasps at the image, a helpless noise of envy.

The phantom controlling Anthony’s hand strokes him in long passes and Avery can imagine that this is a performance he’s being allowed to watch. His cock swells almost painfully in his trousers.

“Did you like it? When he-” Avery wants to know so much, wants to know how to be what Anthony craves.

“Christ, shit-” his strokes grow faster, rougher and Avery’s palms itch to be on him. “Yes, I-”

“Are you thinking about him now?” Avery asks, fearing any and every answer Anthony might give. 

“No.” It’s a hiss, something animalistic and primal.

“Then- then what-” his voice betrays him, breaking.

Anthony is getting frantic in his strokes, dripping wet cock twitching visibly.

“You,” Anthony’s face scrunches in concentration. “You, you, fuck, fuck-”

He comes suddenly, his face a delicious journey of pleasure and abandon. Avery’s hands twitch with need, he wants to hold Anthony’s hips and taste him, to gentle him through his climax and hold him as he comes down.

“Oh God, oh God-” Anthony’s gasps are coloured with regret and confusion, as if he can take back the last few minutes through sheer force of will.

His eyes close and Avery feels bereft.

He’s staring, Avery knows he’s staring, with his mouth hanging open and his cock straining for attention. He wants to choke on air, just to feel something.

“Anthony-” whatever was supposed to come next simply doesn’t form.

There’s no going back now, the line has been crossed and now it’s just a question of how far to fall. Avery can’t look away and Anthony can’t look at him, it’s a painful dichotomy of equal forces. 

Dumbly, Avery watches as Anthony wipes his hand on his hip, smearing his come, and folds to his knees. He crawls across the floor, finally closing that final stretch of distance between them until he’s between Avery’s knees. 

Avery can touch him, if he wants. He can put out his hand and feel the soft waves of Anthony’s hair, or the graze of stubble on his cheek, but he doesn’t. Not even when Anthony’s hands alight on his knees and glide up his thighs which twitch and spasm with need, Avery doesn’t touch him.

“Please let me-” he sounds as fragile as Avery has ever heard him.

He wants so much, but he can’t ask. He can’t take. Anthony deserves better than whatever broken, neglected mockery of love that Avery can offer.

“You don’t- you don’t have to,” Avery whispers, offering the way out and praying to anyone who might listen that Anthony won’t take it.

“God, I’ll do anything, anything you like.”

And it’s a relief to hear those words, to hear Anthony say out loud that he wants this, that he’s offering this for Avery to take.

“Yes.”

Anthony’s hands are on him immediately, tugging at his belt and unbuttoning his fly until Avery’s cock is free and bathed in Anthony’s hot breath. He makes a noise that’s neither a moan nor a gasp as Anthony’s fingers trace around him. Avery’s dreams are never this kind.

“I- I don’t-” Avery feels like a glass of red wine, sitting on a white tablecloth, in a storm. He’s a mess in potential, there’s no happy outcome.

“Can I?” Anthony is afraid and Avery wants to calm him, not pressure him.

“If you-” and that’s the wrong thing. “Yes.”

Wet heat envelops him, the pressure of Anthony’s mouth and the gentle suction of him, God, it’s everything. His hands are in Anthony’s hair, as harsh as he dares, tangled in locks of red silk.

He might explode at any moment, the pressure that builds within his heart and his balls threaten to overwhelm him until Anthony pulls away. The loss of him is felt so keenly that Avery can’t contain a sad whimper. Anthony’s mouth is back on him in an instant, a consuming sensation of licks and sucks that has Avery barely controlling his urge to thrust.

His fingers tighten in Anthony’s hair as his peak approaches, hastened by a hungry moan from deep in Anthony’s throat. It’s too much to be wanted like this, to be devoured by one so hungry for him, Avery’s control is paper-thin. He grabs at Anthony’s shoulder, squeezing his warning into the muscle.

“I’m- you don’t- I- I. Oh!”

Avery bites his fist, stuffing his fingers into his mouth to muffle his mortifying cries. It seems important to keep the words he wants to say inside, behind his teeth. So many unspoken thoughts have been rattled loose and are now threatening to fall from his careless lips. The pressure of keeping his ugly longing inside forces a stream of tears down his cheeks.

Between his thighs, Anthony is swallowing him down and lapping at his softening cock. When he looks up, Avery can’t imagine what he must look like. All flushed pink and tear-stained cheeks. Anthony rests his cheek against Avery’s knee, looking up at him with such soft adoration that Avery nearly suffocates from it.

“Will you- I’m sorry, will you kiss me?” After the last half hour or so, it’s much easier to ask this.

Anthony looks like he hasn’t heard him, or perhaps he just doesn’t believe what he’s heard. Avery opens his mouth to take it back, to apologise for crossing a line he hasn’t foreseen but Anthony is crawling into his lap and kissing the breath out of him.

His mouth tastes of salt and sex and it’s better than before, better than any kiss Avery has ever had. He lets his hands wander across Anthony’s back and his tongue explores the contours of Anthony’s teeth. His tears are wet between them, cool and slick on their cheeks. Anthony draws Avery’s bottom lip into his mouth and Avery’s hands are grabbing fistfuls of his thin shirt. He gasps when Anthony’s teeth nip at him, alight with a hunger he’s put significant energy into ignoring.

Every reason he’s ever given, every excuse he’s made for himself, every half-imagined horror story about the life he might have had comes flooding back to him. Anthony’s forehead is pressed against his and it doesn’t lessen the panic rising in his throat. Warm breath flows over his lips as Anthony leans in to claim another kiss and Avery wants it so much that he aches with it. Anthony deserves so much better than Avery can give him.

“I have to go,” Avery says, hating every word.

Anthony looks wounded, as though his soul has been ripped into pieces, Avery can identify with that more than he likes. Slowly, painfully slowly, Anthony pulls away and flows back on to the floor like a receding tide. The places he has touched are cold and mournful without him.

“Don’t,” Anthony’s eyes are bright with tears and Avery hates himself intensely. “Don’t go.”

Avery is a monster, he’s scum. Anthony deserves so much better than Avery can ever be. In that moment, Avery sees their entire future spread out before him like a map. He’ll ruin Anthony’s life, dragging him into his secrets and lies, it’ll never be enough and it will never be safe. Avery closes his eyes, a coward through and through.

“I- I should. I have to.”

The gentleness with which Anthony dresses him is too much, Avery feels a sob building in his chest like a bubble. Of course, Anthony takes care of Avery before himself, isn’t that just like him to be kind and selfless even as he’s having his heart trampled on? Avery knows what he’s doing, as much as he loathes it.

Avery stands, weak-kneed and weak-willed. His hand runs through that soft hair once more, unable to contain himself. He sees his mistake as soon as Anthony arches into it like a cat.

Stumbling away, Avery can’t seem to form words or even coherent thoughts. He’s disgusted and disgusting, searching for some way to fix what he has smashed and ground under his heel.

“I-” Avery swallows, narrowly avoiding the coffee table in his escape bid. “I’ll- tomorrow.”

“Can I call you a-” Anthony is still on his knees, looking forlorn and lost.

“No, I’ll walk. Walk a bit,” Avery says, watching Anthony unfold himself from the floor, righting his clothing at last.

“I don’t know if you should-”

“Please,” Avery watches Anthony’s resolve crumble, knowing the dirty trick he’s used.

He needs this, a walk in the storm that feels like a punishment for his crimes here tonight.

“All right,” Anthony is defeated.

Avery retrieves his coat and scarf, trying to dress faster and end this torture but he gets tangled and the whole process is extended while Anthony watches with sorrowful eyes. Avery can still feel the roughness of Anthony’s stubble against his lips as he opens the door.

As he steps into the rain, his hair immediately soaked to his scalp, Anthony opens his mouth.

“I’m in love with you.”

Avery blinks, his brain suddenly avoiding all higher function. He’s really fucked this up, he’s ruined everything. The show, their friendship, his happiness, and, most importantly, the heart of the man he loves. It’s like a physical blow, seeing all the ripples of his impulsive idiocy. Avery says the only thing that makes sense.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, angel,” Anthony looks like he might die on the spot and all Avery wants is to walk back over, take him in his arms, and kiss away every worry Anthony ever had.

He doesn’t do that.

He nods, rainwater trickling down the back of his neck. “I love you” dies on his lips and he turns away, walking into the rain. Avery doesn’t look back until he hears the click of the latch behind him. 

The walk back is slow and uncomfortable, no less than Avery deserves. He sobs and wails, the wind whipping away his banshee howls of self-pity. Too much to drink, too much emotional vulnerability, not enough self-control, and he’d ruined everything. He deserved the misery of being sodden and freezing, he deserved far worse.

By the time he reached his hotel, Avery is thoroughly depressed. He strips off his waterlogged clothes and dumps them in a soggy pile, too far gone to care. His phone rings as he’s getting into bed and he seriously considers ignoring it but it’s Tracy and she’s about the only person in the world who might understand.

“Hi, Az, how was your dinner date?” she asks, a hint of suggestiveness in her voice.

A cracked sob is all Avery can manage as he curls in on himself in the bed, cradling the phone to his face.

“Oh, love. What happened?”

  
  



End file.
